I’m reading Proust. Partly because my abdominal pain’s so awful I need something so utterly mind-numbing for me to distract the pain; partly because I’m that bored. Either way, I’d have to say A la Recherché du Temps Perdu is pretty boring. But putting that aside, it started to make me think of what it means to be cultured.

I am often called that. I suppose I can see why, although within the household I live in, the level I am at is fairly standard. There are books my parents have read that I have not, and vice versa, but we share information, and exchange opinions over the dinner table. My father knew about “Gerrymander”, and I did not (and amazingly that term is registered within my spellcheck). My father did not have a particularly defined opinion on the definition of artistry, and I did. Exchange of knowledge and opinions. That is what our conversations our made of.

But what does it actually mean to be cultured? Being cultured is one of the hallmarks of being middle class, it seems. But why is it important? Jack, I’d say, is cultured; speaking two languages, learning two more, well-read (partly because of me; we share books quite often), interested. His sphere seems rather large compared to others. He’s a classical pianist but he listens to anything (he seems to shy away from country and rap, but he also said that he’s “just not used to it… I haven’t listened to the genre enough to pass judgement”). And why is it that some arts seem to command more respect than others? If all arts are equal, then listening to Dr. Dre should be treated just the same as listening to Wagner.

Does it? Nope. Not at all. I have yet to meet someone who goes “I’ve always wanted to go to one!” when I say “I’m going to a Linkin Park concert”. But operas? Sure. All the time.

It seems that nowadays, people have very rigid, tiny definitions of “culture”. “Cultured person” seems to mean “someone who is well-read in books, who has watched and engaged with classic films, has a refined appreciation for art, etc. To be cultured is also to be educated about the world and its languages, to understand world politics and be well-read in world history”. Which translates to: doing boring things.

So I pulled out my arsenal of middle class people. According to them, “culture” is being interested in things other than your immediate sphere of interest. Reading is a prime example of it; I don’t live in France, but I read French authors to see the world from their eyes. To know what French people are like. What France is like. (That is not to say that I particularly enjoy Proust.)

But it’s undeniable that classical music gain more respect culturally than rock. Why?

Connor (my flautist friend) gave me an interesting answer. He agreed that Mozart was the 1800s Lady Gaga; he pulled up ladies’ skirts (how naughty), wrote very inappropriate music, and was just plain scandalous. But why is it that Mozart commands more respect than Lady Gaga, then?

“Well, people associate culture with it because our generation is that of popular music,” he said.

“So it's because opera and Rachmaninov and Monet are far more culturally distant that they're so valued? (apart from the amount of pure hard work we have to put in to perform them, as opposed to Katy Perry.)”

“I think that’s pretty accurate. I also think the amount of theory they used was a big thing. Mozart used musical logic to explain emotion.”

It seems that culture just really amounts to having interest in the world outside of what you know. And vaster the interest is, more cultured you become, because you naturally try to go and learn by reading, listening, seeing; I watch breakdancing, line dancing, Irish dancing, ballet. I’m only familiar with ballet myself, but others are interesting to me, and I’ve learned a few things about rhythm from all of those sub-genres.

On the other hand, there are some utter rubbish in any genre. Those should be weeded out.

During a recent discussion regarding preferred dog species, my past failed relationship, and whether Charles Ryder needs to be so utterly homosexual in the 2008 release of Brideshead Revisited, Jack made a point that there was one factor that doomed my relationship to utter failure, before I even uttered a hello.

Class.

Now, living in United States and Canada does give one a different rationalisation on class. It is based on financial assets; therefore, it does not matter whether you are a Harvard MBA or a Hollywood DJ; upper class is upper class, end of discussion, without much regards for preferences. Of course, middle class do tend to frequent Sur la Table and buy extra virgin olive oil, but that is not the hallmark of class. It is how much you have in your bank account, not which bank you use.

Not quite so in England, Jack said (which was rather old news to me). Case in point: class is determined by your priorities which you inherit from generation to generation, despite the recent degeneracy that has been occurring. Therefore, a Tory’s son would most likely be a Tory, go to Oxbridge (or Edinburgh or Durham or London, depending), drink appropriate tea brand and eat certain foods. Because that’s how it is done in the family.

“That seems a bit bizarre,” I said. “What class am I?”

“Solidly middle, I’m afraid. You are the female version of Charles, worrying about everything and hanging on in quiet desperation.”

“How dull.”

Middle Class, said Jack, is formulated by a single, underlying philosophy: long-term thinking. Being the historical supporting class of Great Britain, they are the ones who have always received the brunt of political and social upheaval, and therefore, like to be prepared for disasters. Of course, this underlying philosophy has somewhat disappeared under the pretentious (not my word, but his) formalism, but it is still there. Therefore, you eat fair trade organic (healthy food means healthy body), go to museums on weekends (I don’t quite understand this one), send children to grammars or independent (better college means better university, which means more stability in life later on), select a few choice areas in which to use money (because that, in turn, actually means less expense after all).

Now, there are few random things that middle class do spend money on, Jack said. Tea for instance. And coffee. And wine. A middle class person goes to operas and ballet, play classical instrument quite often (why?), use Wedgwood or Royal Doulton dishes, sing happy birthdays in mortified hush in restaurants, agree that Thatcher was a good idea, listen to BBC radio and watch BBC1 (or 4? I’m never too sure, I do not possess the modern discovery called television).

“Alright,” I said, a bit huffy. “Explain how ANY of that works into my failed relationship with him and my rocky yet successful, undefined relationship with you.”

“Right.” He thought. “What tea does he drink?”

“Tea?! I’m asking you to explain the doom of my love and you’re asking me about tea?!”

“Tea is a big indicator, dear.”

“Tetley’s?”

“I could have told you that your relationship would never work out, just from that. You staunchly cling onto Twining’s.”

“What about Janet?”

“She’s African by origin. Different rules.”

What was I supposed to say?! Sarah and Jack both drink Twining’s. Ugh.

“Favourite author?”

“I have no idea.”

“Wait.” Jack paused. “You’ve known this fellow for over a year and you don’t know his favourite author?”

“No.”

"How curious. Favourite pastime?”

“Video games.”

“Doom yet again. Play an instrument?”

“Bass.”

“… Double bass?”

“No. The electric one.”

“See, Gabrielle,” Jack said, in a resolute tone, “you and he are too different, it’s almost as if you live in a different world. Can you imagine Harry playing bass?”

“Double bass?”

“No, the electric one.”

I pondered. I giggled. It is very difficult to imagine Harry playing electric anything.

“But his father’s a typical middle class, I think. Master’s degree and the sorts.”

“Gabrielle,” said Jack, “a child’s class is not determined by the father. It is determined by the mother, since the child has far more exposure than the father. I can assure you that you would never have associated with that fellow in real life.”

“School?”

“You went to a local independent. I doubt he did.” (He didn’t.)

Jack continued, ignoring my flabbergasted silence. “You have to realise that class plays a far larger role than any of us would like to admit. It determines the hobbies, interests, books we read, music we listen to, tea preference, newspaper, food, wine, to educational policies. There are blurred lines but there are people who’d fit in middle class anywhere in any recent historical period. You and he had nothing in common.”

“And you and I do?”

“More than what you and that fellow had, yes.”

“Are you insinuating that my relationship ended because of tea brands?”

“That’s symptomatic, not causal. And besides, let’s postulate that his mother is indeed from a good, British middle class…”

“Define good middle class.”

“Well, you know my mother. Would you think my mother would marry someone from the Commonwealth? American, maybe, as they are undeniably world’s superpower, but can you imagine my mother marrying an Australian?”

“Now you’re making it sound like Julia Marchmain and Rex Mottram.”

“And you see how that marriage ended.”

This sounds as if the conclusion is “if the family does not drink Twining’s, stay away”. This sounds preposterous to me. But I’m starting to sound like Michael Meacher, so maybe I should shut up.

Perhaps the British population fears being labelled “middle class” because it automatically means (nowadays, anyway) that you undeservedly receive the products of wealth (music lessons, ballet and opera, good wines, cheeses, e.t.c.) without working for it. I don’t think people realise that middle class may continue buying those things even during personal financial crisis. It’s the preference that makes one middle class, Jack said, not the ability to be one.

Anyway, I compiled this quiz to determine what class you are… I am an ashamed (or upper) middle class, apparently. Ah well. Here are the original quizzes, if you are interested in looking at them. They’re supposed to be tongue-in-cheek, so please don’t come shrieking at me for whatever answer you get.

The “Which Class Are You?” Quiz (Some only applicable to British residents!)

1. The politician you most admire is...

a) Margaret Thatcher. She got Britain interested in property. (10)
b) Margaret Thatcher. She saw off the Argies. (5)
c) Margaret Thatcher. Such fine ankles. (15)

2. The best way to lose weight is:

a) Going for a bracing walk on the moors with the dogs. (15)
b) Getting the NHS to provide you with a free stomach staple and cutting back on the body-building steroids. (5)
c) Stepping up your attendance at the gym and getting a few personal-training sessions under your Lycra. (10)

3. Your TV schedule highlights are:

a) Newsnight, University Challenge, Marple and Midsomer Murders. The more inquisition, the better! (10)
b) EastEnders, The Jeremy Kyle Show or anything with an ‘X’ in it. The more fighting, the better! (5)
c) Anything involving Professor Brian Cox or Sir David Attenborough. The more nature, the better! (15)

4. Your view on tax is:

a) It’s there to be dodged. Get paid in cash. (5)
b) I pay far too much of it. (10)
c) It’s there to be dodged. Put pay in offshore trusts. (15)

5. Museums are . . .

a) Always full of dead stuff with small labels on it. (5)
b) Always a good option for the children on a rainy weekend. (10)
c) Always asking one to be on the fundraising committee. It’s good not to say yes to too many. (15)

6. Your youth was spent:

a) In the Bullingdon Club. You’ve been trying to hide the photos ever since. (15)
b) In Borstal. You’ve been trying to bury the conviction ever since. (5)
c) At Bristol University. You’ve been trying to recreate the good old days ever since. (10)

7. When you feel nostalgic for your childhood, you:

a) Buy some chintzy Cath Kidston kitchenware. (10)
b) Thank God you live in the house you grew up in. (15)
c) Call Nan to be shouted at. (5)

8. You have a day to kill with the children. You:

a) Let them run riot on a National Trust estate. (10)
b) Let them run riot on council estate — avoiding men with shotguns. (5)
c) Let them run riot on the estate — avoiding men with shotguns. (15)

9. A dapper man wears:

a) His grandfather’s Savile Row and some well-worn tweed. (15)
b) Designer gear with no collar, high-waisted trousers and trainers — like Simon Cowell. (5)
c) A decent suit. (10)

10. Your daily journey is . . .

a) From the fridge to the sofa clutching a Red Bull. It takes about two minutes. (5)
b) On a Boris bike to work. (10)
c) From the parlour to the estate office. It takes about two minutes. (15)

11. Childhood ambition:

a) To be unemployed and to sit in the pub all day with your rellies playing darts. (5)
b) To be a web entrepreneur. You have plans to sell a loss-making website for a fortune and then spend the cash on installing central heating. (15)
c) To be gainfully employed at something respectable. (10)

12. Your male influence was:

a) Your dad. (10)
b) Your mum’s last boyfriend. (5)
c) Your grandfather, a war hero. (15)

13. Your female influence was:

a) Your mum. (10)
b) Nanny. Funny, your wife looks just like her. (15)
c) Your big sister, who turned out to be your mother. (5)

14. Eyebrow and hair colours that don’t match are:

a) Weird. Like Alistair Darling. (10)
b) For badgers. (15)
c) Glamorous. Like Jordan. (5)

15. Your views on tattoos:

a) The more the merrier — but they have to be obvious.
b) Gross.
c) Quite sweet, if discreet.

16. Your idea of a perfect evening's family entertainment is:

a) Trivial Pursuit. (10)
b) Charades. (15)
c) Everyone on the sofa with their own PSP (PlayStation Portable). (5)

17. Your views on vegetables:

a) No, ta. (5)
b) Organic only. (10)
c) Grown on the home farm with plenty of pesticide. (15)

18. Nails need to be . . .

a) Tastefully plain, with plain or light pink nail varnish. (10)
b) A full set of acrylics painted green with diamanté stuck on. (5)
c) A mess. (15)

19. Make-up must-haves:

a) False eyelashes, fake tan, plumped-up lips and spidery mascara. (5)
b) Practically nothing with shiny hair and a nice, jolly lipstick. (15)
c) Fresh-faced make-up — blusher, tinted moisturiser and a dash of eyeliner. (10)

20. Your idea of fast food is:

a) Jamie Oliver’s 30-minute meals — so long as you do the chopping fast. (10)
b) Super-sized, served in a bucket and costing 99p. (5)
c) Skipping the starter and eating pheasant from your own estate. (15)

21. You live in:

a) A council house. (5)
b) A mortgaged house. (10)
c) The Big House. (15)

22. Your cousins are:

a) Your cousins. (10)
b) Locked up. (5)
c) Distant, but they all appear in Debrett’s. (15)

You’re halfway there! Have a cuppa.

23. Kate Moss-style smoking on a catwalk with your bum on show is:

a) Perfection — fame and a fag. (5)
b) A terrible example to girls. (10)
c) Who cares? Fashion people are all mad anyway. (15)

24. You will be spending this August:

a) First on the estate in Scotland; then at the house we always take in Rock: the boys do so love the surfing in Polzeath, and Rick Stein's is just a ferry ride across the estuary. (15)
b) Magaluf; Benidorm; San Antonio in Ibiza - anywhere they do proper fish 'n' chips and English lager. (5)
c) Well they do say Croatia's on the up-and-up, though I do worry there might not be enough art galleries for Jonquil and Tarquin. (10)

25. In the morning you are awoken by the gentle strains of:

a) Radio 4's John Humphrys and Jim Naughtie talking about Jordan's politics. (10)
b) Radio 1's Chris Moyles raving about Jordan's knockers. (5)
c) James, your valet, murmuring a gentle reminder that Jordan's King, Abdullah II, may be dropping by for dinner. (15)

26. At breakfast you prefer:

a) India tea, freshly squeezed orange juice, then some kedgeree washed down with a spot of fizz. (15)
b) Warm water with a squeeze of lemon juice, fresh fruit, decaffeinated coffee, organic wholemeal porridge. (10)
c) Sunny Delight, Pop-Tarts, Coco Pops and a bowl of Sugar Puffs sprinkled with sugar substitute.(5)

27. You prefer to answer the call of nature in a:

a) Toilet (5)
b) Lavatory (10)
c) Loo (15)

28. At home, the central heating is:

a)The latest eco-friendly design with thermostatic controls which maximise fuel efficiency. (10)
b)Usually on full blast. (5)
c)Never turned on until the frosts in December. (15)

29. Your perfect pair of earrings are:

a) Big-hooped golden ones from somewhere mega-posh like Gucci. (5)
b) Chic, crafty ones from somewhere hip and recherche. (10)
c) Old, diamond ones from the family safe. (15)

30. Your most oft-repeated catchphrase on your first job was:

a) 'Doors to manual', as an air stewardess.(10)
b) 'Salt 'n' vinegar?' behind the bar at the Dog And Duck.(5)
c) 'No, sorry, can't, that's when Torty and I have our ski break,' as a chalet girl in Klosters. (15)

31. How many TVs do you own?

a) A crusty old black-and-white number, bought as a novelty item shortly after John Logie Baird invented it. (15)
b) One in the sitting room, one in our bedroom, and one for the au pair. Milo keeps nagging us to get one for his room but he'll have to wait until he's 16 - screens do play havoc with a child's reading development. (10)
c) Er, how many rooms have we got, 'Chelle? Is it ten or 11? Eleven then. Unless you count the new ones we've had put into the back of our car seats, so the kids can stay happy on car journeys. (5)

32. You refer to your grandmother as:

a) Nan (5)
b) Grandma/granny (10)
c) Tootles/MinMin/Gaia/Toto/ whatever eccentric agenon-specific nickname the old girl prefers: it's not too late, after all, for her to change the inheritance. (15)

33. You sleep with:

a) Lead-paned windows wide open even when there's a blizzard outside. (15)
b) UPVC windows tight shut and the electric blanket on. (5)
c) Newly installed sash windows, opened two inches, with a burglar lock. (10)

34. Your culinary role model is:

a) Jamie Oliver (10)
b) Mrs Beeton (15)
c) Colonel Sanders (5)

35. Your dog is:

a) Your best friend; marvellous with the kids too. (10)
b) Damned fine at retrieving fallen grouse, almost as good as the last one you unfortunately had to shoot because it was worrying sheep on the estate. (15)
c) A Staffy called Tyson, and I shouldn't get any closer mate. He'll 'ave your arm off. (5)

36. Your favourite wine is:

a) That claret Daddy laid down, now what is its name? Cheval-Blanc '47, or some such. Not that one cares - it's all bloody alcohol isn't it? (15)
b) Chardonnay. What's good enough for Coleen is good enough for me. (5)
c) That rather presumptuous Riesling we picked up in Waitrose last week, with a zingy apple nose and the faint notes of tar, yam and slightly overripe lychee. (10)

37. Guacamole is:

a) A marvellous avocado dip, which goes perfectly with tortilla chips. (10)
b) Frightful stuff. Can nobody run to caviar these days? (15)
c) Terrible place, where the Americans keep them poor orange prisoners locked up. (5)

38. Your children are called:

a) Shane, Jordan, Chevelle and Shareen. (5)
b) Milo, Jack, Zac and Poppy. (10)
c) Harriet, Emily, Freddie and Xan. (15)

39. You dress your salads with:

a) Cold-pressed single estate from Henry and Annabelle's place in Tuscany: £50 a bottle if one ever had to pay for such things. (15)
b) Sainsbury's Taste The Difference Italian Extra Virgin Oil. Bit pricey but you really can taste the difference. (10)
c) Salad cream. Obviously. (5)

40. The carpets in your house are:

a) Shagpile. (5)
b) Threadbare. (15)
c) Replaced by natural oak flooring. (10)

41. When travelling by car with another couple, what would the seating arrangements be?

a) Two men in front. (5)
b) Man with his own partner in front. (10)
c) Man with the other partner in front. (15)

42. At Christmas you spend roughly how much on each of your children?

a) Less than £50. (15)
b) Between £50 and £150. (10)
c) More than £150. Spending on the kiddies. It's what Christmas is all about. (5)

43. There is egg on your chin. Do you wipe it off with:

a) A serviette? (10)
b) A napkin? (15)
c) The back of your sleeve? (5)

44. Do you send your children to:

a) An old public school? (15)
b) The local school? (5)
c) A church school near which you have moved? (10)

 

RESULTS:

0 to 250 - You are a fearful oik. The closest you can ever hope of getting to Posh is if one of your children marries into the Beckham family.

260 to 340 - You are lower-middle class. You dream of higher things but you're trying too hard. Maybe you think fish knives are smart (they're not) and you probably pronounce the letter aitch as 'haitch'. Give up now.

350 to 470 - You are desperately upper-middle class. You fret far too much about everything (global warming, your children's manners, how to cook perfect polenta). You are doomed to be sneered at as a poncey imbecile by the lower orders and despised as an incorrigible bourgeois by your social superiors.

500 to 600 - You live in a damp, unheated house. You live like a savage. You are quite possibly the victim of centuries of inbreeding. You are upper class and the perfect match for Wills and Harry.

MORE than 600 - You are hopelessly, irredeemably upper class. Even the vulgar, arriviste Windsor family are too common for you. More likely, you are a huge cheat and a ghastly social climber who looked up all the right answers.

 

Some of them make little sense and some of them I can see the reasoning behind it right away. Quite a few of them made me laugh out loud (IE: Questions 6, 8, and 14… 8 in particular, because in the original quiz choices B and C are identical). Anyway, I’m apparently a poncey imbecile/incorrigible bourgeois. What were you?

Once upon a time,
an angel and a devil fell in love.
It did not end well.

Thus starts The Daughter of Smoke and Bone by Laini Taylor. I read it about a year ago, and it soon turned into my favourite book. Not because of Prague; not because of the blue hair, or the fantastic creatures that show up; but because I finally felt for myself what Madrigal, the “devil”, was going through.
Almost.
The story, to be paraphrased, is simple. A female art student named Karou lives in Prague. On most days, she is a normal girl, just with a few oddities, like lapis lazuli hair and a habit to disappear. But on those few days, she acts as a fetcher for something very odd:
teeth.
She fetches them for her father-figure, a chimaera named Brimstone, who is often called The Wishmonger, as he trades teeth with wishes. But Karou has no idea how she, a human, ended up with the chimaera family, or where she is from, or what the teeth are for. She lives in this state until she is chased and nearly killed by a seraphim with eyes like flames, who calls himself Akiva.
Karou then learns her mysteries; she is no human at all; she was, in fact, a graceful, beautiful chimaera named Madrigal, who had fallen in love with an angel despite the eternal war that had been going on between those two species, and had dared to dream a world where people were free to love each other. And for loving an enemy, she was executed in front of her beloved, but Brimstone – who was not, in fact, a wishmonger, but someone who resurrected the dead – whisked her soul away and resurrected her into the human form.
Apart from the fact that I adore Laini Taylor as a writer – I first fell in love with The Fairies of Dreamdark Series – I fell in love with this book when I fell in love with - and loved - someone. Because, for the first time in my life, I emotionally understood Madrigal. I had always understood books logically; after all, I observe people for fun, and analyse them in my head all the time. But very rarely had I actually emotionally understood a character, especially one like this.
When I had met him, I had not known then, but it was just the same as when Madrigal had met her angel two years after the battle in which Madrigal had saved him as he lay, injured from battle and dying. Madrigal was just about to be betrothed – unwillingly – to the general of her people, Thiago. Unwilling but unsure, she had no idea what she was to do as she was (rather forcedly) in a dance with the general, when the angel found her.

Twice more Thiago passed her to new partners, and twice she was returned to him in due course. Each time was more unbearable than the last, so that she felt like a runaway returned home against her will. When, turned over to her next partner, she felt the firm pressure of leather gloves enfold her fingers, it was with a lightness like floating that she let herself be swept away. Misery lifted; wrongness lifted. The seraph’s hands came around her waist and her feet left the ground and she closed her eyes, giving herself over to feeling.
He set her back down, but didn’t let her go. “Hello,” she whispered, happy.
Happy.

And that was how it felt. I was fine by myself – I have friends who love me, and parents who dote on me like no other – but despite all the misgivings I had, despite all the things my parents were against about, I truly felt happy with him. I felt more complete, as if I had found my twin (obviously not my twin in any way, shape, or form, but that was how I felt). That weekend, I had smiled more than I ever had. I, who had to be told repeatedly during my Senior graduation picture to “smile”, was smiling without realising, all day long, for three days, despite the cold and all the mishaps.
In a way, I had felt loneliness all my life. Your parents would someday be gone; friends are there for you, but you will never be their first. But with him, I could dream for a future in which I’d be with someone I love and care for. For the first time in my life, I was not afraid of a male, which is truly remarkable, since I am usually terrified of them. Sexless, they are fine; they are fun to talk to, productive in conversations, logical. But as soon as they add that sexuality to themselves, I fear them, for they have the power to hurt without even realising.
There were things I had wished changes for. I wished he was more confident (for some inexplicable reason, he had an odd lack of confidences in things that really deserve no such thing). I wished he was a bit more ambitious; I wished he’d use a tissue. But I trusted him to be steadfast and loyal, because I am weak and I often crack.

“I’m hoping to be your blanket and your punching bag all at once.”

That was what he said. He promised – repeatedly – to not abandon me, for I was terrified of it. I think this stems from my past experiences when I had to leave behind all my friends and then gradually we’d fall apart and away, like rose petals that had lived for too long. Whatever closeness I can have, I cling onto them, always in fear that I am not good enough to be someone’s friend, to be loved by someone. In my head I know that I deserve all the love they give me, but in my heart there is a little voice telling me that it might be a pity-party, for how can people tolerate someone like me?
I admit. I am terrified of relationships. I am terrified of rejections. I am not exactly a likeable person; I am temperamental, weak, stubborn to the point of obstinate. I hate saying sorry. So I grab onto whatever goodwill they have for me like a starving beggar grabbing onto crumbs.
But as our story progressed, and words like marriage and children began to show up, I began to feel worry. It is easy to say “I love you”; but it is much more difficult to show it, for love is a conscious choice to sacrifice one’s self for another’s happiness. And he had told me repeatedly that he did, in fact, love me, but many of my questions were returned with the answer, “I don’t know”.

“Do you think love makes us grow?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you were Akiva, what would you feel?”
“I don’t know.”

Love is not just the moment’s decision; it happens every day, in self-control and perseverance. To not give up on another, until it is truly clear that giving up is the best option for the other person. And I felt unsure that he could persevere; life is hard. My life might be categorised into “extremely hard”. And it was doubtful that suddenly, my life would get easy, for I had never learned how to “settle” with the results. I had a truly vicious fight with Jack when we had ended the relationship; we remained friends afterwards, but only because he was as intense as I was, and we had vomited all we had to say to each other. It was hurtful on both parties, but that was the truth.
Jack had shown he could persevere. He persevered music instructions (and trust me, those are not fun until you reach a certain level; not if you want to progress fast, at least). He had persevered through our fight and had remained celibate ever since, and had said nothing when I had misunderstood that he had, in fact, lied to me and was cheating on another woman with his girlfriend (who turned out to be a gross misunderstanding on my part). He made no excuses.
He wanted to get married after he graduated. That was about three years away. I would be in graduate school, and worries mounted. It was unclear if funds were readily available. What about children? Who’d move to where? What about his education? (I wasn’t entirely sure if I’d be okay with Dr and Mr title. I am not Bernadette and it is rather clear that Howard from The Big Bang Theory isn’t really completely happy about Dr and Mr Wolowitz.) What would happen if most of my friends were Dr. XXXX and he wasn’t? I’d be living in a different world, wouldn’t I? (In fact, this is one of the common reasons why working/graduate student couple break up. Apart from not having any time.) If he had said “I don’t want a doctorate, I want to be a writer”, then that would have been fine; after all, PhDs just have PhDs in common. But the degree is a symbol of perseverance and work and not giving up. Not settling.
Divorce would not be an option; this being an international marriage, it was just going to get very messy and may, in fact, unwittingly make me into an international criminal. Divorce can be avoided, if neither party gives up. There is no “dealbreaker” except to admit defeat. And so I wanted an evidence – anything – that would show he was not going to do that. It could have been anything, really. “I overcame my least favourite subject” was really enough. But those who settle run away from problems without tackling them head-on. And those who run away admit defeat. And those who admit defeat in marriage end up in divorce.
First fight turned into our last. He gave up; refused to even listen; and, from what I learned, his entire family celebrated this “new-found freedom”. But if I was so burdensome, why didn’t he say so? And if he was the kind who do not keep their words, why did he say he was the kind to begin with? If keeping words is not important to him at all, then why bother telling me that he kept his words?
I would have loved my worries to be proven wrong (and I hate being proven wrong). But this time, I was proven right, and it brought me no joy. Just a dull ache that intensified at random times. Because I really was planning to uproot my life for him; because I had spent the last five months with him in mind most of the time (down to when I was selecting my clothes); and all those had been laughed at and trodden upon, as if my efforts were less than worthless. Because my heart and my affections had been, apparently, less than worthless, and ought to be celebrated when gotten rid of.
My friends had been wonderful to me; I got messages from Europe, Australia, even Japan, wondering if I was doing alright, if I needed to talk. Jack had offered to stand in lieu of him while I recuperated and tried to stand on my own two feet again, because I felt acutely alone, as if someone had taken away my coat in middle of winter. I needed affirmation that my affections and my efforts were worth being appreciated for, and that I deserved to be in this world. Matt and I met up in Toronto and he listened to me (over a rather expensive dish of pasta, I might say) as I rather incoherently retold my stories. Jeremy scolded me for feeling so dejected. Dietrich, Adam, and Robyn sent me messages. I really got support from all over the world, much to my amazement.
Cheating doesn’t hurt by itself; it is the shards of the broken promise, fragments of words unfulfilled, that stabs people’s hearts and rips them apart. It is the broken trust that breaks a heart. And after promising me so many times that he would not do it, he shattered what taped-up, banged-up, cracked-all-over remnants of my “heart” I possessed. And apparently, he walked away, laughing, glad to be rid of me.
And if I loved him, I should be able to celebrate his choice; but I find it difficult to do so, because it is difficult to accept and not mind that my risk and my energy had been less than nothing. Sometimes I wish I had not chosen the path of faith, because it is much easier to hate and to hope for ill than to wish well for those who rejected you. It is difficult to offer the other cheek. I keep trying to think that this was for the best, and that I should be thankful for all the sweet memories he gave me, but it’s so difficult when just his mere smile made me smile as well. When his good morning from across the border brightened my otherwise monotonous and boring day. It’s difficult not to cry when I remember myself rushing home after rehearsal so that I could talk to him for just a minute longer. Because just as Akiva’s existence had made Madrigal happy, so did he to me.
There are many things I wish; but wishes are fragile things that easily pop like bubbles. I wish I had kissed him more. I wish I had told him that I loved him (seriously, not in baby talk) far more times than I had. I wish I could have made him understand that to yearn for people is okay; and that “not hurting for company” while being in a chatroom is just trying to convince yourself that loneliness is part of you. I wish I could have told him that he wasn’t alone (although that might be arrogant of me).
Wishes are indeed fragile; but hope is much stronger. With faith, one can hope; and with hope, one can love. I had lost faith in him, waiting day after day, staring at the “offline” status, ill and alone (I’d been ill for the past six weeks), fighting nausea and pain and weight loss (that has somehow contributed to my sub-career… not really a welcome bonus), and with lost faith, I had lost hope. And if I loved him still, I should be able to hope well for him, but it is so difficult.

Until the night that he had finally seen Madrigal again, he hadn’t even known what a wishbone was. She wore one on a cord around her neck, so incongruous a thing against her silk gown, her silken skin.
“It’s a wishbone,” she’d told him, holding it out. “You hook your finger around the spur, like this, and we each make a wish and pull. Whoever gets the bigger piece gets their wish.”
“Magic?” Akiva had asked. “What bird does this come from, that its bones make magic?”
“Oh, it’s not magic. The wishes don’t really come true.”
“Then why do it?”
She shrugged. “Hope? Hope can be a powerful force. Maybe there’s no actual magic in it, but when you know what you hope for most and hold it like a light within you, you can make things happen, almost like magic.”

I no longer wish for those things; wishing that the past would change is futile. And I no longer hope that I can return to the state I had been in, that of bliss and happiness, because the person I had known is no longer the person I know. The virtues I loved so dearly – the steadfastness, the loyalty, the accepting, forgiving spirit – had all been overturned. Once you know, you cannot unknow. I have to start walking again, despite my skinned knees and my broken heart.
But I do hope that some day, I can truly wish happiness for him. Because then, I can say, “I truly loved him until the end.”

I never understood people who can be BFFs with their exes. Especially when you still hold torches for them. Won't they break their hearts, realising that they will never touch their exes' lips ever again, or hold their hands, or have the exes look at them like nothing else matters, or get embraced?

A thought popped up while listening to "Cool" by Gwen Stefani today. It's kind of clear that the narrator in the music video still has feelings; so why does she go through with it? How can she? If I broke up with Will and he started dating a new girl, god forbid we live in a different country (at least) because I'd probably go insane if I saw him kissing someone else. I may end up killing them both then plead innocent by the reason of innocent in the court.

Anyone have ideas? Because this is a mystery.

It’s a bit weird to be looking back, perusing through my blogs (which I have maintained since junior high), trying to remember my high school days. I’ve been away from the environment for six years now, and I never, ever want to return again. What made me return to the days of my mental torture was Sandy Hook Incident, and how the shooter was a quiet bright man who was almost a complete recluse in high school.

I was a recluse in high school. Maybe it doesn’t qualify as bullying, but it sure felt like I was ostracised; there was a glass panel between “me” and “everyone else”, and no matter how much I rammed on the panel, nobody could hear me, and I felt as if the world was going by while I was in a glass box. I hated almost the entire school, and I actually had a few murderous thoughts throughout my career. Academically, I was a star; socially, I did not exist. I spent most of my afternoons and evenings studying or prepping for my various extracurriculars, of which I rarely took any joy in. My life was work, work, and more work, with almost no friends and no play. It did not help that I had Asperger’s Syndrome, then unknown, and was unable to read the minutiae of the nonverbal cues people give off. I did not take jokes well; unless its meaning was obvious, I took it rather literally. I was Asian in an almost completely Caucasian school. I didn’t join the fashion cliques. I was different on almost every aspect, I thought differently, I had different priorities. And for that, I was punished, because for all the freedom and diversity the social system advertises, the society does not. Mean Girls isn’t just a film, it is a fairly accurate portrayal of many high schools across North America, where if are different in one way, shape or form, be it race, the way you think, or the way you dress, you are ostracised. And if you are not part of a group, you are, in fact, not one of them, and therefore you are an easy target. (I’ve also lived in Japan and England, and for some reason, I’ve observed this tendency far less often in those two countries.)

In the end, my mind was going through torment overload. A teenager is fragile, unsure of any direction like a new butterfly emerging; the wings are wrinkled and still unstable, and they are vulnerable and unable to take flight. Even the slightest jostling can ruin the beautiful wings. And we are jostled all the time; we don’t finish drying the wings all at the same time, and some take flight far earlier than others, causing turbulence and wind that disturbs the drying butterflies. I dried very slowly.

I almost didn’t at all.

I’m not vouching for all teenagers – some seem to have happy high school lives – but I didn’t. Each day was a slow agony. I was eccentric, and that meant laughter was in order, and even if they had not meant it, I took it as a ridicule. But I knew that murdering others wasn’t an option – if I survived through the ordeal, there’d still be repercussions – and so the murderous energy, the fury and rage, turned in on itself.

On me.

I did not pull the trigger in my mouth. We do not keep guns in the house, probably a good thing. But I started starving myself, under the pretext of getting in control of my life, because I felt my life was spiralling out of control. University applications were a chore, and even with that I was going down a different road; I was applying  to British universities, which was the very first in my school. I was on a strictly regimented diet that would barely sustain a newborn let alone a 5’9” 17 year old. I began to visibly lose weight. I was borderline overweight when I started, and when I graduated, I was a measly size 000. When I bent down, my vertebrae stuck out. It was a mental suicide, if not a physical one, because in a way, it was either them or me; we could not coexist in the same world, so one of us had to go.

This is not only my story. This is my friend’s story. This is my student’s story. I hear this story everywhere, and people ignore them, because the good majority are in groups and those who are not in groups are invisible. We are the invisible walkers in the hallways, until our minds cannot take it any more; invisible people cannot coexist with visible ones, so one of us has to go. Very often it’s yourself, and while you may not kill yourself completely, you do go through some sort of a mental, ritual transformation to leave that chrysalis behind and emerge to the sky as a butterfly. A differently winged one from the vast majority; we were not counted as butterflies because our chrysalis had different patterns, so it is only natural that when we fly, our wings look different from the rest. The Ugly Duckling is a surprisingly accurate allegory that tells us this phenomenon has existed for centuries.

What I am not trying to say is that I am Adam Lanza. But what I am trying to say is that this is not just a problem about guns, or violence. It is also about the mentally unstable son of Liza Long and Liza Long herself, and that invisible teenager who is getting mocked and teased every day in English class because he is a social recluse. I am not defending Lanza – what he did is heinous, despicable, and should not be forgotten or forgiven – but what I am saying is that, sometimes, it is a thin line that divides you or me from the shooters at Columbine High School.

We all need saviours. A gentle word from a teacher, a caring smile from a classmate might be all one needs. But in order for that to happen, someone has to notice you, and if you are invisible, then that’s impossible.

Sometimes, we are banging on the glass wall, never to be heard by the passers-by. But it takes one person to notice and shatter the glass wall down.

It’s been three months and ten days since my last entry, partly because my life gets hectic when I’m at school. But I have one more exam to go.

It feels odd being in this situation. The phrase “my boyfriend” sits oddly on my tongue, like a foreign food that I’ve never tasted before. It doesn’t mean it tastes odd, but it does roll of my tongue clumsily sometimes. Now that I think about it, I never referred to my ex that way; he was always referred to by his name, and that never changed, even after the incident. But Will is constantly referred to as my boyfriend, and while it feels odd sometimes, it’s not an unpleasant feeling.

I suppose I need to rewind.

The summer was a lonely one. I was with friends, but I felt all alone; I think it’s because I always had to second-guess their motives. That’s what happens when you stick them in a sexual limbo, and I suppose that’s partly my fault. I wasn’t exactly where I wanted to be, and I needed someone who didn’t expect anything out of me. I was the girl who went to medical school at age seventeen. I was the girl who was a model. I was the girl who could play Sibelius at age sixteen. Etc. But I just needed someone to look at me as who I was personally, not by my abilities.

Will was lonely. He had just moved to Brussels. He was all alone; and he does have particular traits that make him not exactly the most sociable in the world. If I didn’t know the truth I’d have thought he had Asperger’s.

I think it’s only natural that we became close.

Of course, that took a tremendous courage on his part. But for whatever reason, he did see it fit to strike up that courage. We began talking, every day, me sometimes drunk, but always on edge, for I was beginning to develop some possessiveness over him (which some people call crush, but how was I to know) and where could this go? He was nineteen, I was twenty-two, and I had made it a rule never to date anyone under my age… there were so many rules I had made up for myself, and I just could not see this going anywhere, so I kept my guard up.

But he still invaded my world, not knowingly, but he still did. I was vulnerable, as I always had been, feeling low, trying to find someone who smiled just because I was there, who took joy in my happiness. Someone I could feel I could give my life up for, and it didn’t come turbulently, but rather like a shadow, which you only notice after it’s fully there. I had no idea what he even looked like, but I was getting attached to him; he had a vulnerable side underneath the mask he wore, and he showed it to me, timidly, like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis.

I suppose one of the reasons I became attached to him was because of that. He wasn’t asking for love, just that I’d allow him to love me. He was like a bed, always there, ready to catch me if I fell. Demanded nothing of me, accepted me for all my weaknesses and vulnerabilities. He never demanded anything, never asked, always there.

September came. Things happened.

And then he came to visit. He came down to where I live during Columbus Day weekend, since that’s Canadian thanksgiving (they have thanksgiving? For what?), and I had the weekend off. The beginning started off awkwardly; I went to pick him up, and he was sitting there, and considering that I’d never actually met him before, it was very awkward. He’s very shy. We dropped his things off, discovered almost none of his cards worked, and we panicked for a few hours.

After that got sorted out, we walked around town. Went down to the beach on Ohio Street (I think). It was cold, and the wind was blowing in our faces, and there were people jogging around, but for some reason it felt as if there was a bubble around us that kept us separate from everyone else. He held my hand, and I suddenly felt very small (which is a bit of a feat, since I’m 5’9”). My hand felt small in his, our fingers entwined, his hand warm against mine. We sat at the beach, mainly because Lake Michigan is one of the town’s attractions; there was a previous occupant on the ledge, so we sat on the concrete that quickly drops off onto the sand, but as soon as the occupant left we moved to the ledge, facing the water. The wind blew in our faces, and my ears were cold.

There are moments when the silence dominates, and you just have to take a plunge to break it; otherwise it feels like the silence will wrap around you forever. I remember saying shyly (or at least, I felt very shy), looking into his face, and asking him if he remembered the kisses he promised me as a part of a running joke; I had tagged a price on something I did, and that was a kiss, which grew to two, then four, then it started racking up, and by the time October came it was in hundreds. He nodded.

“I think I’d want one now.”

He looked a bit flustered. I knew I had hit out; maybe he wasn’t ready. Maybe he wasn’t in the mood. But then he confessed that he had no experience (which wasn’t any news, since I knew I’d be his first girlfriend).

I looked up at him again. I had to; he’s 7 inches taller than me.

“We all have to start somewhere,” I said.

And then our lips locked, and suddenly I wasn’t cold any more. Our lips separated, and he laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“My heart’s beating so fast.”

And it was. I listened to it, my head against his chest, and I could hear it, a fast, steady pulse, telling me that he was a living being, warm, flawed, and open enough to show me. Jack wasn’t so; he expected something of everyone, including himself, as if he could not let his guard down. He demanded perfection of his little world, and when that crumbled, he fell apart. But Will knew he wasn’t perfect; he was aware of his flaws, accepted them, and knew that the world is perfect just the way it is, even in its inherent imperfection. He was living, warm, aging, alive. I was suddenly aware that he was male, and I was female, and that if he decided to he could just take me and I’d be powerless; but I also knew that because he was aware of his imperfections, he’d never fall to the bottom, he’d never let everything go as Jack had. So he’d never do anything without my consent. He never even touched me until I asked him to.

And just like that, layers fell off, one by one, layer by layer, like getting the skins off an onion. A shy smile turned into a broad grin, a timid hold of hand became firmer. The next morning we went to Six Flags after missing the shuttle, and even that was a happy memory despite all the grumblings and inconveniences; he was happy to be there, and so was I, despite the cold (and it really was cold).

Sunday. He was leaving the next morning, and I was aware of each moment, as if I was watching sand fall grain by grain. I was late that morning. We set to meet at ten and I was twenty minutes late; I felt apologetic but when he saw me he had a big grin on his face, and everything was gone. Visiting the Art Institute was an eye-opening experience, partly because if we’d entered myth trivia I’d lose (first ever for me… probably another reason he’s borderline autistic). The sun was shining, and the marathon was going on, and the town was busy and full of bustle. We giggled all the way through modern art (most of which make no sense to us).

There is a little garden next to the Art Institute, where it is canopied by trees planted on elevated ground surrounded by marble which is just the perfect height to sit on. I was tired from all the walking, so we sat on the ledge. The leaves were falling; it was autumn. Kissing occurred almost naturally, our eyes meeting and our lips touching; we got interrupted by a woman who asked for money, and Will, in his superbly good mood, gave her some cash he had (partly to drive her away so we could resume kissing, he said afterwards with a grin). I was intensely aware of his smell, his warmth, his breath, his hands on me, the way his lips locked with mine, the way his dark eyes looked at me.

Lunch was a fun affair; Flat Top Grill is a popular hangout for the students, so we went there. More walking around, and then suddenly it was evening. When it was time for us to say goodbye, I realised I could not. Now that the moment was approaching, I couldn’t let him go. I wanted his hands in my hair, his eyes on me, his mouth on my lips again, his arms around my shoulders.

I couldn’t say that. I felt shy, and I’m not supposed to say things like that; I’m logical, without much emotions, cool and collected. And saying “I don’t want you to go” sounded so squishy. So I asked him to get me home, since it was getting late.

He hesitated.

“Please?”

We stopped by the hostel first, since I had asked for his shirt before he even came down here. He gave me the one he had been wearing the previous day, and it smelled of him; we had to walk from Clinton to La Salle, and we promptly got lost on the way, but eventually we found the station. We went on the train to get home.

And it was as if my brain was finally aware that this person was leaving soon to the place I would not be able to go to on a whim, that this person who had spent so much energy coming to see me was going, that I won’t see him again for some time, perhaps months. I couldn’t just let him go. I kissed him, and he kissed me back, and some glitter from my lipstick had rubbed off, but when I told him that he just laughed and wiped it off. I kissed him again. And again. As if I could stock up on kisses to last me until the next time our lips met, our hands became entwined.

He met my mother that evening, since she invited him in for tea; and he sat rigidly, shy again, meeting the mother of the girl he was seeing. I left him a little souvenir in his pocket, and then my mother and I walked him back to the station. I went onto the platform while my mother waited downstairs. We stood by the exit.

“I love you,” he said.

It might not have been the first he said; I can’t remember. Probably not. But my mind was screaming that the train might leave any time, taking him away from me. I kissed him again. His lips were dry, soft. Another kiss, followed by another. And another. I was in his arms, and it was as if I had my duvet around me, making me feel safe and warm.

Apparently I asked him to make the kisses lighter, because it had a certain effect on me. I don’t remember saying it, but then again, he’s the one with the mind for details; kiss after kiss, our lips met, separated.

Then I saw the driver getting on, and I knew I had to leave him, and he me.

Many conversations followed after he left. My wounds were deep; he is patient. Many doubts; he dispelled them, one by one, painstakingly.

I’m not sure when I realised I loved him, and that if he were to get up and say “I’m going to leave you, I found someone else”, I could probably smile and let him go, not because I didn’t care but because his happiness was mine. That even if he did that now, I could thank him for all the love he had given me, and all the memories of being loved and being able to love someone. For memories are all we cling onto when we have relationships, friends, family or lovers; we stock these memories with each second we spend with them, to pull them out later like an album and smile to ourselves. It feels odd to say that I love him, but if being able to sacrifice yourself for the sake of another willingly is love – and that’s how I define it – then I do love him.

When you love someone, it does not mean the centre of your world becomes the other person. It becomes an ellipse, with one focus being you and the other being the other person; thus your world expands. You share your world with the other, and hopefully the other reciprocates, and the world expands around you, bring you new joy and new tears.

So whatever the outcome – whether we are together until death do us part or whether we are not – that is not the important thing. It is the journey to the end that is important, each minute spent getting there. And since the journey is inherent to whatever end it reaches, this relationship will always be dear to me, for telling me that there is someone who loves me – not as a friend, or a parent, but as a female, a person, as me – and that I am able to love back.

And it is not being loved that is the key to the relationship. It’s about loving.

For the past three semesters I have been in a quartet. Quartet, as it turns out, requires organisation far more than skills, and I was taking care of organisational schemes for the past two semesters (setting up practice rooms, setting times up, getting in contact with everybody). This semester, after our third cello left, a professional instructor came in lieu, and he designated someone else as the “frontman”.

Good, I thought. I’m freed from obligations.

What a frontman does, essentially, collects information, distributes accordingly, and takes actions. So if someone is sick, it’s frontman’s job to tell it to the instructor; someone is missing, it’s also the frontman’s job to contact them and know where they are. They are the organisers of the group; sets up time, reserves room, contacts instructor, e.t.c. Since I was no longer the frontman, I relegated the information (that I was busy this week and can’t do it Wednesday or Friday) to our new frontman.

Well, as it turns out, our new frontman did NOT inform the instructor. And now the instructor is pissed off. Apparently he wants me to quit.

So I shall.

That opens up two hours during the week, not to mention I get to go home at 3:45 – ish on Fridays. And do homework. And other things that demand my attention.

They can try to find someone else.

That’s what a certain male character says in the game Dragon Age: Origins, when he, er, tricks your character into admitting that yes, you like him. And then he kisses you. Out of the blue. That’s called kiss-theft, and it’s the non-refundable, non-returnable, and unjailable kind. (My character seemed to be quite happy snogging his face, but that’s because some programmer wrote a code for it, not because she found his lips yummy. But hey, maybe they were. Go figure.)

Apparently, relationships kind of start this way. There aren’t any going down on one knee or coming up to you with bouquet of roses or holding a teddy bear that says “will you go out with me” or even the traditional “check the box” kind. I always wondered when people actually start dating, and how they remember anniversaries, e.t.c. I recall one of my friends happily telling me it was their three months anniversary, and me having no idea what that meant. I was sixteen, and my head was filled with Hobbits. (They still are, but that’s besides the point.) Anyway, there might be people who would have those moments, but alas I will not be one of them. Here’s what happened.

Recently I became very friendly with a male species who lived in Brussels. Well, it wasn’t a recent occurrence; we’ve been talking since January. When you make a room full of teenagers and early twenty-something year olds who are all pathetically single and pretty much live in two-dimensional worlds, a few of them are bound to decide that living in 2D is enough and that they might want to venture out into the real world where people aren’t programmed to say certain things. When two such people are male and female, pretty much agree on what they believe are important, and are on par with appearances, things progress before two hapless inexperienced barely-out-of-childhood people whose social ineptitude should be given prizes can realise. And before they themselves realise, the surrounding people decide the fate for them: “you guys are dating”.

Actually, scratch that. That happened in the game as well.

Anyway, that’s what seems to be happening to me, as of recently. We were talking, some intimate moments were shared, we both talked to our family (there’s this boy/girl, we really get on well together), and before we knew it they automatically thought “this is getting somewhere”. Maybe we were, I don’t know, because we’re pretty much walking in the darkness and when you’re walking in the dark, you might be walking in circles. Or backwards. Or maybe you’re moonwalking and actually not getting anywhere.

Alistair tricked Amarina into admitting that she had feelings for him, after he admitted that he had feelings for her. Fine. He then kissed her. That’s called theft, but unfortunately Ferelden (or the Landsmeet) didn’t feel like putting up emergency services for the conveniences of the citizens and therefore the elven mage had no one to report to. And then before the two of them knew (I’m pretty sure Amarina thought “we kissed” and that was where the extent of her thoughts ended), the people around them were decidedly thinking that they were now an item. It was a bit like brainwashing. Keep getting told that you are with someone and one day you realise that that is your mindset. Especially when you’re inexperienced.

I thought that was just an in-game plot. I am NOT Amarina, Alistair is a figment of imagination, I don’t live in Ferelden and Mr Ezra Pound (He’s not actually Ezra Pound, but he shall be referred as such as part of a joke) isn’t Alistair. But apparently these things do happen. It was a bit like Final Destination, where you just miss the signs hitting. Over. Your. Head. With. A. Sledgehammer and before you know it, things line up and the car crashes and you’re screaming your head off.

Signs? What signs? Well, I missed them, but now that I think about it, they might have been neon flashing signs. First, I had a completely wrong impression of him. I thought he was a girl. Granted, there was nothing to give away his gender, but still. So when he casually said “I am not a girl”, I apologised profusely and cursed him inside my head so that my embarrassment could give way to irrational and self-righteous anger.

Second, what seems to be inappropriate conversations in private with euphemisms and innuendos. Maybe I read far too many novels but they just spill out when I don’t watch myself. He caught on (curiously enough, because he claims that he’s a complete innocent in these dealings… hmm.), and he was already interested by then, but I had no idea, because evidently I need to get whacked in the face with a big billboard sign that says “I HAVE A CRUSH ON YOU” in order to notice it. I think at this point, it was the point of no return. That being said, I probably wouldn’t have said these things if I was horrified and repulsed. Two points for Gryffindor (by the way, Gryffindor is in my spell check. Mindset was not. Something is wrong here).

Third, our surroundings just simply decided that we were an item. In this case, it wasn’t the evil witch in the back or the faithful bard who loves shoes a bit too much. It was his mother (or maybe it was him, and this was entirely his chicanery, and I fell into a trap and broke a leg and now can’t get out of the well… okay, I’m victimising myself. I’ll stop). Since his family knew about me at this point, his mother asked him how to explain me to other relatives (or something. Why this was necessary eludes me). Since “this girl I’m very interested in but she lives south of the border and we only talk online in a game chatroom but we talk every single day and sometimes she’s naughty to me and I don’t mind it at all” was a bit of a mouthful, he said:

“Girlfriend.”

So that was how I was introduced to his other relatives. At this point, correction at a later date is a bit futile. I also didn’t care, and my skin wasn’t crawling with the idea, and my mind wasn’t telling me to immediately log off and curl under the covers and await the angels’ trumpets and the second coming of the apocalypse, so I told him so.

He asked if it was okay. What was I supposed to say? “Yes darling, in fact, I do”? That’d be lying and hurting people for no particularly good reason. “OMG I’M OVERJOYED XD” was not what I was feeling, probably because I’m not fourteen. So I said yes. And that was that.

Bryony Jones once told me that someone will just suddenly pop up when you aren’t looking. I wasn’t looking. I had reverted back to me at age 15, when my head was filled with non-existent characters and writing and… stuff that really don’t pertain to real life. I guess he was just there and we happened to be compatible.

Anyway, that is the story. The thing that worries me is that he’s younger than me – I’m the kind of a person who wants to rely on the males and not be their elder sisters/mothers. I’m just not that maternal. I want the boys to take care of me, not vice versa. But he seems to be doing a good job of listening to me being a brat and making demands, so maybe it’ll be okay. Who knows. We’ll see.

Oh. And he’s super-tall. And thin. And is pleasing to the eye. That always makes or breaks the deal in the end (I have plenty of boys in my contact list who can probably match me in personality, but appearances decide, in the end. Friendship only goes so far). And whether he’s just saying this to be his ideal of a gentlemen or trying to get into my trousers (probably not) or just to please me is unclear, but he seems happy when I’m happy, so that’s good too. That’s usually an indication that he won’t knowingly make a girl cry (yes, I might cry if he forgot the Neuhaus chocolates, but that’s not really his fault). And the last thing I’ll do is cry over a boy. That’s just a waste of good tears.

On a side note, I have no idea when the “girlfriend” with the mother occurred or when “I told my mother you’re my girlfriend” conversation occurred. So unless we come up with a mutual date, we won’t have one. 

I got my new Evah gold. It costs an arm and a fortune. I think I’ll need to take out a mortgage.

I haven’t strung it yet, but I’ve heard rumours that it sounds “amazing”. Wonder how. I do need a brighter G. My E’s gold, and D and A are bright enough, but G has a tendency to sink.

Last Rose of the Summer is killing me. It took me an entire day to write out the chords on Sibelius so I can just practise the chords first. Then the ricochet.

Summer’s already 1/3 gone. Wow.

First off: oops.

I completely forgot about the blog’s existence, which is a bit of a shame, because I’ve kept one since Junior High. I think that must be some kind of a record. But things got utterly hectic and I couldn’t do it.

Anyway, I’m back.

And the layout is different, because my web server disappeared while I was on hiatus and I can’t find my files. So here we are…

Today was god-awful.

Dragon Age II began. And since my Warden fell in love with her fellow Warden, I decided that Hawke will not fall in love with Anders – who’s far too like Alistair anyway – and will go for the elf instead.

My god, he’s a PAIN IN THE ASS.

First of all, he’s moody. Really moody. And very combative. It didn’t start off well either. The conversation went like this:

Fenris: We should be cautious. No need to throw away life so needlessly.
Hawke: Alright.
Fenris: (storms into the manor) DANARIUS! I’M RIGHT HERE AND I’M GONNA HAVE YOUR HEAD!
Hawke: (facepalm)

And then, as it turns out, if Hawke has a relationship with Anders, no Fenris loving time for you! What the hell did he want, a virgin?

Now, my Warden was a virgin (there’s a dialogue option that allows the player to tell this). But I have no idea about Hawke. However, romance with Anders happened rather precipitously, with Anders going “STOP STRINGING ME ALONG” and Hawke going “Well, let’s see, let’s drive this guy, who’s already nuts, more nuts, shall we?”. And then boom. Kissy time. Hawke then went home, and shagging occurred. What the hell. What kind of a relationship goes from first kiss to first shag in one night? Amazing.

Back to Fenris. He’s not exactly the most wooing guy in the world. After first Fenris sexy time, he dumps you. Douchebag. When Hawke’s mother dies, he can’t be a bigger prick if he tried.

So why is my Hawke trying to romance him? Well, truth be told, no romance option in Dragon Age II is decent. In Dragon Age: Origins, both romance options for a heterosexual female Warden were decent; shy and sensitive and proper or rambunctious and outrageous. But this time, it’s either:

A: Anders, who loves you, cherishes you, then blows up a chantry and starts a war,
B: Fenris, who is more than slightly emo (sorry Fenris) and generally seems to have a penis on his head, or
C: Sebastian, who’ll marry you, but never give you sexy time. Which baffles me. Marriage without physical intimacy seems kind of cruel.

So Bioware, for the next Dragon Age, please make a decent romance option that won’t necessarily break the hero’s heart.

Okay, back to seducing the emo elf.

I've had the misfortune (or fortune) to be introduced to PC RPG games when I was in year 8. All credits go to Kori Miller, wherever you are, and my English teacher, who taught me many other ways to waste time in general. Anyway, as some of us know, I finally got Dragon Age Origins, and my goodness that thing's hilarious.

Like...

Creeeeeepy.

Or this:


This just ruins the tension and the mood.

I think I'm getting bored of the game, as I've deviated from saving the continent from the imminent doom and I'm just making my party dance to Thriller.

What of Skyrim? You may ask. Ah, dear friends, that game is annoying me. It's fetch for most of the time, and I can't stop running into walls most of the time. The mouse control of direction and going forward with AWSD is annoying. Why couldn't they do what NWN/NWN2/DAO/DAII did?! Baffling. So unless they come out with a mod, that game's on hold until I can get used to spinning views.

Rosin makes a world of difference.

Seriously. My eyes have been opened. Hello, Pirastro. Goodbye, Paganini.

Recently I have been wondering why my bow wasn’t resonating as I wanted it to. My vibratos weren’t getting through, my resonating pitches fell flat, and the double stops at the frog sounded squeaky and forced.

Now, my boyfriend uses Evah and my lover (?!) uses Tonica, and while I was browsing JS Fisher I found that Pirastro actually manufactures rosins tailored to these string sets.

OMFG OMFG MUST GET NOW!

After a quick permission, I purchased them, and it came in mail today. As I’m practising Tchaikovsky after leaving it alone and forgotten in some dark corner of my music cabinet for seven years, I applied the rosin, and played the intro.

OMFG. Is that really me?! Actually, is that really my bow?! My bow glides effortlessly, while the sound is richer, more vibrant. The traction’s better. I need to force less. The sound’s more powerful, the higher registers more smooth, the lower registers sweeter.

Being a conzertmeister ensures you do one thing: practise.

I’m starting Nel Cor Piu Non mi Sento and Ernst’s polyphonics. My hand is going to die.

 

The concert series is over. And boy am I glad.

A lot of us – that is, anyone who is a performer on stage – always wants a solo, be it ballet, violin, or jazz. And it’s understandable, I think. You get all the flowers, all the attention, all the laudatory comments (and then some)… you get to be the princess for the night.

Unfortunately, not quite so for me. My hands get cold to the point they are freezing. My breaths become shallow, my heart rate soars. There is a flutter of excitement, apprehension, and fear. I want to run away. And I can’t. I need to smile. Go out there. Face the audience. Give my best.

I can’t count how many times I’ve been on stage, whether it be a small recital or concert series. And yet I have stage fright. On the other hand, it’s exhilarating. It’s exciting. It’s sort of like a drug.

I’m also fairly certain my teachers won’t be impressed with my performance. They never are. They always expect more, for some reason. “You can do better” seems to be their motto for me…

My family recently decided (recently as in for a few months) to purchase an espresso machine. As some of the readers may know (or not), my family is a huge lover of teas and coffees, and it didn’t really make much sense not to have one. Oh, we had one, yes, but it was one of those really old manual style ones before the semi-automatics came into being. So I was sent on a hunt.

Now the thing about espressos (or coffee or wine or tea, for that matter) is that it’s sort of an art. Not a science, no. It requires a very sense-based adjustment that doesn’t have a formula, and the opinions vary from one to another: aluminium is good. Aluminium is not good. You want a big portafilter. You don’t want a big portafilter. the grinder should be separate. The grinder shouldn’t be separate. One shouldn’t buy a grinder at all, but instead by ground beans. E.t.c. E.t.c.

To be honest, I don’t think it makes that much difference. I have never heard of anyone going “Oh, you rotten person, you didn’t brew this correctly! Clearly you didn’t use a big portafilter” upon imbibing. But clearly they make a difference, or something.

Anyway, after much consideration and seeing a $100 off from a Gaggia machine, we decided to purchase it. It shipped fast (yey for UPS); it was packed quite well; and the price was good. And it arrived today.

I should have known it would be a perilous quest to get my first drink of espresso, considering that it’s a freaking Italian product.

First, the beans. As we don’t have a burr grinder (yet), I was sent by my mother to buy the beans on the way back home from uni. Fine. I searched on Yelp, found Lavazza very close to my other campus, and after surviving through the physical chemistry exam and a differential equations class, I hopped onto the shuttle bus. I got dropped off. I turned on my GPS service on my phone. Yelp stated that they close at 9:00 PM. Fine.

So I walked from E. Pearson to Walton, which is about a five minute walk. Mind you, this is before five pm. Clearly still normal business hours. The Lavazza was a teeny tiny place, but looked cosy. I pushed the door open and…

nothing happened.

Pushed again. Nothing happened. Some fat git inside (I think he was the barista) looked at me, but did nothing. Pushed again. Nothing. Puzzled, I looked at the operating hours.

… FOUR PM?!

If this was NatWest in the colonnade at Guy’s Campus, I’d give up. But this was Michigan Avenue. I was irritated. Six might be a reasonable time, but four clearly isn’t. There are still businessmen working at 4 pm. What if they wanted a cup of coffee? Starbucks would be operating; Lavazza would lose money.

But clearly they weren’t concerned.

Irked, I walked down the street, went to John Hancock Centre, and went into the Italian food shop/restaurant. They were open (they close at 7.30). Bought the beans. Went home. Unpacked the espresso machine. Ate supper. 

And then came the time to use the Gaggia Baby Black. First thing that puzzled me was there were three filters, while the manual clearly indicated just two. One was clearly just a single; the two others were doubles, but one just had one hole and the other had slightly larger holes (plural to a greater degree). Not sure about which one to use, I dug out the manual.

Nothing.

Read again. Nothing. Irked, I looked through the French translation. Utterly nothing. What kind of a manual was this?! I looked through the directions to making an espresso. Still nothing; what was even more puzzling, it said “to fit the filter (10 or 11) into the filter cup holder (9), then fit 9 to 11. How can you fit something into another, then fit that other thing back into that thing? That is physically impossible.

After searching on google and coming across a post by someone who had the same query, I proceeded to make my first cup of espresso. I used the double cup filter, pressed on, and waited…

and brown liquid sprayed out, some into the cups and a lot on the table cloth.

I was beyond irked at this point. I was also hating most Italians at this point, and was cursing most of the famous modern Italians, starting with Berlusconi to Carla Bruni (who is politically a French but she’s still an Italian). Italians clearly can’t be related to Romans; Romans made the aqueducts that are still in use today, while the Italians can’t even properly make a freaking espresso machine. The manual said NOTHING about “OUR MACHINE CHEERFULLY SPRAYS COFFEE ONTO YOU AND INTO THE CUP” clause. Instead, there was a curious black plastic part that evidently was supposed to go with “the good crema device”, but the good crema device wasn’t even in there.

“Maybe that black thing goes into the holder”, said my mother.

“That’s not what it says in the manual.”

“Oh, come now,” said my mother, “do you really thing Italians would read the manual before using this machine? Just try it.”

So I did. And lo and behold, no more spraying. My question is, why didn’t they just scrap with the retarded engineering which clearly is a failure and just make a better filter holder? Instead they just added this black plastic thing the size of my pinkie fingernail and did away with it. It’s prone to loss, breakage, and it’s just plain bad planning. I knew Italians weren’t exactly Germans (my philosophy professor or S. Git Giachetti, is a prime example) but this is beyond belief. Can’t they do anything right (apart from make shoes)?!

Needless to say, I can never live in Italy until I retire and no longer care about personal growth. When I’m seventy and am just looking to live my life as hedonistically as possible, I might move there. But spending 30 minutes trying to figure out the manual is just a waste of my time.

Gaggia, I am very very disappointed in you.

I have slept for the total amount of 12 hours for the last three days. Last night, I had to write three papers that are due next week. I have a physical chemistry exam this Thursday, a Modern Physics exam next Monday. And it literally feels like somebody is whipping me to trod forth, as if I am a racehorse that needs to finish a three hundred mile race before the end of the day.

Needless to say, not happy. At all.

This is literally how America works. You start running. And then you run faster. But everybody's running faster than before. So you run even faster, trying to get ahead. Some people still run faster. You run faster and faster, and the lactic acid's killing your legs, but you just can't take a rest...

What I'd love to do is take a nap. But I have a student coming in for writing instruction in 23 minutes. Lovely.

Contrary to what everybody tells you, majors evidently do count when it comes to the hard green cash. Of course, you’re better off majoring in mathematics when applying to law school just because your scores will be better, but looking at just bachelor levels, it seems that you’re better off doing cold, hard sciences.

The top achievers were engineering (of course), but other scienc-y stuff came in as well, such as applied mathematics and physics.

On the other hand, those which are generally called as Humanities came in quite low. What was surprising was, fashion design beat psychology. Granted, they seem to be the same in rigor of the curriculum (do you have to trudge through 50 pages of nothing but formulae and derivations? No. Do you have to sit in the lab for three hours watching the proverbial paint dry? No. Do you have to solve 50 problems for homework and hope to god that what you’re doing is right and not quietly developing an impossible physics phenomena? No.) but I think this is because of the flooding of the psych majors.

As for Philosophy (cough-junkie-cough), all I’ve learned so far is that as far as you write semi-coherently, you’ll get an A. This conclusion came from my philosophy class taken over the summer of which, I learned precisely the following:

1. Italians can’t understand German or English philosophy
1. This is probably due to the fact that they don’t need to suffer much. Good looking women, good food, good weather? What do you need to suffer about? (said Dietrich the German, not me)
2. Italian professors evidently have penises for brains
3. As far as you use big words and write something that vaguely sounds intelligent, an “respected professor who writes books” will give you an A. Never mind that I did not even crack open any of the assigned texts, missed half my classes, and wrote my final 2 hours before it was due (PS: I don’t understand why people try to establish “this professor’s very respected” just by the amount of stuff they published. If Naomi Campbell can publish a book, then it certainly doesn’t require much intellect to do so. And no, publishing papers in the Journal of Philosophy means nothing to me. If Socrates said an orange was an apple just because he was purely delusional on hemlock, we’d be tested on it and be forced to analyse it to death today.)

But then again, I’d better get paid better than those English majors, thank you very much. I have to sit in a lab, derive equations, argue with professors for hours on end just to see how time expands.

And for those of you who say “you go there to expand your horizon!!”, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have not improved my writing skills since I graduated high school, not because I don’t learn, but because my university decided to place me out of the writing curriculum because evidently I write spectacularly. And training cognitive processes aren’t what you do at university nowadays; that’s what you used to do, back in the “good ol’ days at Oxbridge” as J’s father said once, but you are thrown information of which you are to digest it and regurgitate it on paper as much as possible and as fast as possible. Mathematics and the sciences may require some understanding (induce, deduce, the works) but English? Anyone with some reading skills and some thinking ability can do that, as I’ve learned.

Of course, if you say “Well, I’m certain I will become the next John Locke! People will analyse my texts and my notes for eons”, then I defer to thee, my friend. But as long as what you did in university was sit on your rear end and get stoned, too bad if you don’t land a job in this career-appalling day and age.

Said IM yesterday morning.

And to be honest, I’m inclined to agree.

IM and I have been faithful T-mobile users in the US. Heck, I was a T-mobile user back in London. My best friend in London uses T-mobile. My best friend here and my research professor both use T-mobile. And apart from one crappy incident during which I had no service over the weekend, the company’s doing fine. I like their monthly pay as you go plan, and I don’t mind not having top notch smartphone. It’s a good enough company that offers my needs at a cheap price.

It certainly beats AT&T, aka “the demon reincarnate from hell”, as IM said. AT&T just plain sucks. Dropped calls, bad customer service. E.t.c.

So when those two merge, we’re in big trouble.

A. We hate AT&T. That’s why we chose T-mobile. As internationals (as opposed to ‘I’m rooted to the USA and will never leave this country’), GSM is a must. Only T-mobile and AT&T offers this.

B. AT&T are just plain more expensive.

C. Their customer care stinks.

D. Did I mention the DROPPED CALLS?

So it’s either half the nation petitions Verizon to get GSM service, or we're going to hope to all the deities out there that the DOJ would block this merger.

On the other note, I managed to ding – ever so slightly, to the point you need magnifying glass to notice it – my new phone. I’m greatly annoyed. Why does that bloody phone have to be so difficult to open?

Of course, JB is gloating, much to our chagrin. IM and I use android, but he’s a freaking iPhone (jailbroken) user. In fact, he uses MacBook and an iPhone. I’m surprised he hasn’t proposed to Steve Jobs.

Guess who’s more computer savvy? Definitely not the Apple User.

I suppose this is a hypocritical thing to say.

IM is trying to whittle his class down (two sections, 80 people each) into 60 people (2 sections, 30 people each) or less. He originally requested one section of 30 students, but the department screwed something up. And then told him too bad.

Monsieur IM is not a happy chap, and therefore went ahead and decided to do everything he could to get as close as he could to his goal – 30 people class – and evidently this means being as cruel as possible to the poor, hapless medical student wannabe freshers. He figured that most people do not like 8.00 am class, nor do they like ridiculous curves for an A, and so decided to do both. He declared he had no office hours, so it’s appointment only. A is 95% and above. The class begins at an ungodly hour. Et cetera.

JB is faring only slightly better. He is a lab assistant and leading a fresher research team (part of the curriculum, evidently), and is wondering what sort of a bad thing he had done in his previous life to merit such a torture. His Rachmaninov went from cool, collected and passion hidden beneath a collected facade into a general overtone of “I’m just tired and need to sleep”.

I, as you may know, have taken upon myself to endure 21 credit hours of work. This includes Physics, Chemistry, and Mathematics classes. And an English class (of which I am slightly peeved; if you are an university student and do not know the Protestant Reformation and why it happened, and how it was caused, then your educational institution was clearly a failure.), and a completely inconsequential philosophy class of which the assignments have nothing to do with the lectures whatsoever. And two researches. And two volunteerings.

I’m exhausted most of the time, but when I think about my friends, I can’t exactly sit down and take a rest. I feel that I need to keep moving. This isn’t a pleasant experience, but I suppose that’s what I came back for.